In some ways I am already in Spring, because I am making new beds, preparing ground to plant stuff in next year. I realize the luxury of having soil to work with, and knowing that I will be working with this soil again next year. For life and for soil I am grateful most every day. And Autumn and I are good friends: Autumn puts shiny conkers in my pockets, lets me bite into crisp apples, sees me pile fallen leaves.
In a lot of ways I am squarely or roundly in the moment, able to really be with myself, more than I have ever managed before. I am inventing my life, moulding my plans, working with the differing pace of day following night following day, the dreams, the reflections. For the first time perhaps I almost always manage to feel, ah, this is what I am at today, and holding a few threads in my hands wonder which I will be pulling when I awake the next day.
Outside of shedding tears, sending out some of my love, keeping my symbolic fingers crossed, I still do not know what to do for the people who are leaving their homeplace, more and more every single day, risking everything in the name of life and hope. And those who do not make it (for them I believe in reincarnation). I too emigrated to be able to unfold my wings, but it was a choice, unlike a lot of my ancestors who, like the people I see rescued from hazardous embarcations, felt they had to flee. It is me. It is us. I am on some North-Western edge, often ashamed for what others do or fail to do and it’s not much use—but I see a lot of people who remember that we are all humans together and that too brings tears to my eyes.